


Five Places Anderson Cooper Has Slept

by unquietspirit



Category: Fake News RPF, Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Real News RPF
Genre: 5 Things, Gen, Napping, Pundit Round Table, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unquietspirit/pseuds/unquietspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson <a href="http://www.usmagazine.com/entertainment/news/25-things-you-dont-know-about-me-anderson-cooper-201179">claims</a> he can fall asleep anywhere at any time. It's close enough to being true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Places Anderson Cooper Has Slept

**Author's Note:**

> I've linked to source material as applicable ~~, except for number 3, which I _swear_ I heard about at some point, but now I can't find where. Any help would be much appreciated~~. **Edit: I finally found where I read it! Okay, I got the position of the jacket wrong, but still.** Also, that part can be read as a sort of prequel to Outgoing  & Incoming, if you're so inclined.
> 
> Thanks to Sarken, my beta. <3

1\. [A Red Cross in Somalia](http://zeggy.tumblr.com/post/47345573016/more-i-boarded-the-plane-in-baidoa-soaking), 1992

He's spent all day being shown around Baidoa by armed "guides" who basically forced their services onto him, and now they're at a makeshift food distribution tent for the International Red Cross. Most of the aid workers look annoyed by Anderson's presence or ignore him entirely, but the Irish woman who's in charge gave him permission to be there and answered his questions on camera, so he films and tries to stay out of their way while his guides talk in a loud group a few yards off. He keeps filming long after the good light has gone, taking footage he'll never use of the workers efficiently dismantling the tent and loading it into their truck. He's stalling, trying to figure out where he can go and if his guides are planning to rob and murder him.

"Staying with them, are you?" asks the Irish woman, nodding toward the group of men.

"No," he says quickly. "I'm going to find a hotel."

She stares at him in a way he's come to recognize as meaning he's shown his naivety again. "Jaysus, no! You'll come with us, if you've not got a place. The hotels around here aren't safe."

Anderson nearly hugs her before going to tell the guides they can meet him by the hospital in the morning.

On the way to the Red Cross's guarded compound, the woman, Maeve, tells him they don't have any extra beds and can't spare him food or water, but he's welcome to sleep on the floor. Anderson just feels lucky to be somewhere relatively safe for the night. He reassures her that he packed canned tuna and bottled water of his own, though in truth there's not much water left. He'd underestimated Somalia's heat and is feeling feverish and dehydrated.

 _One more day_ , he thinks. _Then I'll have enough footage._

Maeve finds him a thin blanket and a clean sheet to lie on, and he uses his tattered backpack, stuffed with his only change of clothes, as a pillow. The sound of distant gunfire jerks him awake every two hours like clockwork. He's not sure if he's dreaming it or not. It takes him a long while to fall back asleep each time, listening to the undisturbed breathing of the Red Cross workers on their cots around him.

 

2\. A television studio, 1999

Being an anchor on a show that broadcasts at 1:30 a.m. and has its own dedicated accordionist doesn't rank a private office at ABC. He gets a desk in the middle of the busiest part of the newsroom -- for which, don't get him wrong, Anderson is very grateful, considering it's the first proper desk he's ever had. But it makes taking a nap difficult, and with his current schedule, he _needs_ naps or he's going to keel over on air. Guzzling Coke doesn't help enough. He actually contemplates switching to coffee after he almost dozes through the B-block during his second week on the job.

He's passing the studio on his lunch break the next day when it hits him: the studio sits empty most of the time. Maybe he could use it. Cautiously, he tries the door and finds it unlocked. All the lights are off, and it's blessedly silent once he shuts the door behind him. Anderson stands there for a few minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness so he can cross the room safely. Then he sets an alarm on his watch, crawls under the anchor desk, and drops off.

From then on, he sneaks into the studio every day, feeling like he's reliving his abandoned dreams of being a spy. He even manages to smuggle a little travel pillow in and hide it behind some binders. His co-anchor finds it once when she's looking for a pen.

"What on earth is this doing here?" she asks.

Anderson shrugs, trying to look innocent despite his pounding heart.

She frowns at it before replacing the binders. "Weird."

The close call only ups his enjoyment of his covert game. He's not sure what would happen if someone caught him, but no one ever does.

 

3\. [St. Peter's Square](http://www.mensjournal.com/magazine/anderson-coopers-private-war-20130904?page=3), 2005

"I need to crash for a while," Anderson says around a yawn.

"Don't go far," Charlie, his producer, replies.

"I won't. I've got my phone if you need me."

Charlie nods, and Anderson steps into the nighttime darkness surrounding the tiny building that's housing CNN's mobile command center. He weaves through the half-dozen satellite vans parked outside to the small area behind them.

Space like this is a rare commodity now. The mourners here to see the Pope's remains are packed so tightly, some of them can't move. Possibly that's a good thing, since they're helping support each other's exhausted bodies. Anderson has seen a number of them faint. He's nowhere near that point himself, but he _has_ been working around the clock for days, and it's starting to catch up to him.

The vans block him from sight and provide a wind barrier. If he wanted to, he could probably get a key for one of them and sleep in its passenger seat. He doesn't bother, just strips off his jacket, rolls it into a ball, and stretches out on the cobblestones with it under his head.

In his dreams, the sea of people filling the square becomes an actual sea, swirling around the obelisk and breaking in waves against the doors of St. Peter's Basilica. He stands at the edge of it, fascinated by its power.

"Anderson!"

It's Charlie, twenty yards out into the water and trying to swim his way. The current is too strong. Anderson finds he can't step forward; his feet feel like they're stuck in mud. He can only reach out with his hand. Suddenly, Charlie is close enough to grab it. He starts shaking Anderson's whole arm.

"Wake up, man. We've got a show to do."

Startled, Anderson opens his eyes.

Charlie is crouched next to him. He lets go of Anderson's arm and holds up his phone, raising an eyebrow. "You weren't answering, so I had to come find you."

Anderson shifts and realizes the jacket under his head is vibrating. "Sorry," he says, getting up. "I forgot I put it on silent." He walks with Charlie back to the command center, the dream already forgotten.

 

4\. [A boat on the Okavango Delta](http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504803_162-57575965-10391709/anderson-cooper-why-i-went-diving-with-crocodiles/), 2012

Five minutes after surfacing, he says, "Let's go again. Maybe I could touch one this time."

His two producers look up from reviewing the footage of the last crocodile on his Go Pro camera and glance at each other meaningfully.

"I think we've got enough, Anderson," Paul says.

"But we haven't found a really big one yet," Anderson protests. "The smaller ones aren't as impressive."

"They were big enough to impress _me_ ," the cameraman at the stern of the boat laughs.

Michael, the other producer, turns to Brad and Andy, their experts and the subjects of the piece. "It's going to be getting dark soon, isn't it?"

"In a couple of hours," Andy says, "but it'll take about that long to get back."

"Yeah, we should head in," Paul says. "We have enough for today. Maybe we can come back out tomorrow." He has the air of a parent saying 'we'll see' to a child while hoping they'll forget.

Anderson can recognize a losing battle. He sighs. "Someone pass me a towel?"

Now that he's not focusing on the next dive, he starts to notice all the little effects adrenaline has on his body. His hand is shaking ever so slightly when he takes the towel from a cameraman. The back of his neck is tense and sore, and there's a bitter taste in his mouth. Even his own body thought he should be terrified of literally coming face to face with a crocodile, not exhilarated. As he shoulders out of the top of his wetsuit and dries his torso off, he wonders again if he might be a tiny bit crazy.

Diving fatigue combines with his usual post-adrenaline crash and hits him like a train about twenty minutes into the ride back. On the way out, he had enjoyed watching the wildlife on the shores as they went past, but now he can barely keep his eyes open. He puts a jacket on over his t-shirt and wetsuit, which is still covering his legs with the top hanging inside-out around his waist, and then pulls the jacket's hood up against the chilly air.

"D'you guys mind if I take a nap?" he asks. Most of the crew have moved to the other boats. It's only Brad, Andy, and Michael still with him on this one, and they all shake their heads. Anderson curls up at the bow, resting his feet on the side and using his damp towel for a pillow. He's out like a light in seconds, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Brad wakes him, and the first thing he sees is the _60 Minutes Overtime_ cameraman standing on the dock recording them. "Good snooze?" Brad asks.

Anderson doesn't have the energy to do more than grunt in reply. Stiff muscles and a foot that's still asleep make him stumble as he gets up. _Oh,_ that'll _look good,_ he thinks, giving the camera a self-conscious smile.

 

5\. A diner, 2012

He's still adjusting to the second-season schedule of his talk show on the day Jon and Stephen snag the horseshoe-shaped corner booth instead of their regular table.

"Wow, you look like shit," Jon says.

"I know," Anderson says. He collapses into the booth and rubs his eyes. "Taping the show live is great, except it means I have to be up at five in the morning. I haven't had a decent night's sleep all week."

"C'mere and let me give you a back rub," Stephen says, patting the cushion next to him.

All of Anderson's previous experiences with massages did nothing but make him more tense. "Um, thanks for the offer, but I'm good."

Stephen gets the expression that means he's going to insist, making Anderson unusually glad to see Keith and Rachel walk in. "Here, guys," he calls, waving to them. When they come over, he stands and practically pushes Rachel into the booth between him and Stephen before sitting down again.

Keith raises an eyebrow. "If you wanted to be next to me, Anderson, you only had to ask."

"No, it's just... ladies first," Anderson says, flushing slightly.

"Since when is Rachel a lady?" Jon asks, and then yelps and shoots Rachel a disgruntled look. "Not fair. My legs aren't long enough to retaliate."

Rachel smiles and says, "Don't pick fights you can't win, then."

Finally, Keith sits beside Anderson. "Speaking of fights you can't win, who watched the game yesterday?"

Jon and Stephen start talking simultaneously while Anderson hides a yawn behind his hand.

The next thing he's aware of is Jon's voice, hushed and saying, "No, he's just sleeping. Dude's got three jobs."

A male voice he doesn't recognize quietly says, "Oh, okay. I just wanted to make sure. Anything else you need?"

"We're fine, thanks," Jon says.

Anderson opens his eyes and then blinks a few times, utterly disorientated. It takes him five seconds to realize he's seeing the underside of a table, and another five to remember where he is. That's about the time he notices his head is on someone's thigh. The same someone's hand is on his side, thumb rubbing slowly over his t-shirt. He rolls onto his back and, with some trepidation, looks up.

Yup, it's Keith.

Keith sees him looking and quickly pulls his hand away. "You're awake. Good."

Anderson uses the edge of the table to haul himself upright. Rachel and Stephen have both moved over in the booth to make room for where his legs were curled up. Jon has left it entirely and is now sitting in a chair at the free side of the table, which is covered with half-empty plates. 

"How long was I asleep?" he asks, frowning.

"Forty minutes," Rachel says. "Feel better?"

"We ordered you that sandwich you've been getting for the past five months, if you're hungry," Jon says.

"You started on Keith's shoulder," Stephen chimes in with a bright smile, "and then kinda kept sliding downward."

"You could've woken me up," Anderson mutters, not quite meeting Keith's eye.

Keith shrugs uncomfortably. "Seemed like you needed it."

"Thanks," Anderson says, and then busies himself with removing the pickles from his sandwich.


End file.
